


The story of tonight

by isa_belle



Series: Dream smp [8]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, How Do I Tag, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Memories, TommyInnit Needs a Hug (Video Blogging RPF), clingy duo, im so sad about L’manburg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:41:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28633431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isa_belle/pseuds/isa_belle
Summary: “It’s gone, Tubbo.” His voice is hollow.“I know, Tommy.”Tommy kneels in the rubble of the camarvan and remembers.or,, im emo about L’manburg and therapy is expensive but hurt/comfort is free
Relationships: Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: Dream smp [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2068152
Comments: 2
Kudos: 112





	The story of tonight

**Author's Note:**

> can you tell i’m a Tommy apologist? he’s a dumbass, but he’s my dumbass.  
> but also, the loss of L’manburg gutted me.
> 
> title from Hamilton, the dream smp really brings out the worst theatre kid part of me 
> 
> “I may not live to see our glory.  
> But I will gladly join the fight.  
> And when our children tell our story.  
> They’ll tell the story of tonight.”

Tommy kneels in the rubble of the camarvan, tears lost to the pounding rain, sobs drowning in thunder. A firework goes off. A wither roars. His shoulders shake, his fists tremble. Lightning strikes. His throat is hollow with  hurt.

He sees the ashy glass of a potion bottle. The metal of a brewing stand. A piece of a door. 

It all started here. When the rubble was still walls and a floor and countertops. He remembers the way Wilbur’s laugh would fill the little room.  _“Have a carrot, please, calm yourself.”_ He remembers the clinking of potion bottles, blue and red and purple, shimmering. He remembers Fundy ducking under counters, tiny bastard he was, grabbing thing he wasn’t supposed to all while Wil pretended to be mad. He remembers sharing looks with Tubbo, pulling sticks out of their pockets and wielding them like weapons.  _“Tommy, give me a war winning word.” “Syllable.”_ He remembers standing on a sturdy roof, a whistle of air and a thunk, arrows falling like rain. Wilbur, brave as ever, back straight, face bent in determination firm in declaring their independence even as war was raged on the land they claimed for peace.  _“Suck it, green boy!”_ He remembers a meadow by a lake, flowers bringing bees for Tubbo to watch. Laying in the grass, looking up at the stars and feeling this fire in his chest, like a supernova inside his rib cage, big and bright and hopeful. Warm with passion and belief. He remembers Eret and their sunglasses and deep voice, thinking ‘how fucking cool is that guy’ building a wall with their bare hands. The strum of a guitar and a familiar tune. The scratch of a needle on a jukebox. Wind through the trees. Chests full of blaze rods. Shitty hot dogs.  “ L ’ _manburg” they laughed._ He remembers Tubbo in search of Wilbur, who was perched in a tree just above him. Tommy cackling in laughter as the boy spun in circles looking for him.  _“I don’t know what you’re doing with your infinite women,” Wilbur said to Dream, a smile playing on his lips, all charm and confidence_ _._ Fundy climbing onto Wilbur’s shoulders, giggling. Niki sitting in the grass, her feet in the water of the lake, hair tousled by the breeze. He remembers splash fights with Tubbo and Jack, picnics with Wil and Fundy. _“Fuck twelve.”_ Declarations signed with shaky, earnest hands. Brilliant smiles.  _“I want you to do whatever your heart says you should do.”_ He remembers walking back to the van, having lost a few disks but earned their nation its freedom, Wil’s elated smile, arms thrown around his shoulders.  _“Raise a glass to freedom.”_ He _remembers_. The triumph and the meaning and the love. The friendship, the home they all built together. It was so easy back then, easy as breathing. He remembers when it was easy. 

Tommy kneels in the rubble of the camarvan and remembers. And it  _aches_.

The debris digs through the cloth of his pants and tears into his skin, leaving him with bloodied knees. He can’t find it in him to care. 

The van. The first memory he made with Wilbur, the _real_ Wilbur.  _The beginning_.The last one still standing.  _The end._ Gone, in a second. Like it never even mattered at all. Like the walls didn’t cling to those moments as tightly as Tommy. 

More thunder. Someone shouts in the distance. He’s not sure who. He’s not sure of anything anymore. If he doesn’t have L’manburg, if he doesn’t have anyone on his side ( _alone alone and alone again._ No friends. No home. Maybe it’s him. Maybe he’s the problem.)

Today has been. _Too much._ Too much loss all at once, too much hurt, the sting of betrayal. 

First Techno-and he’s grown enough now to take some responsibility for that one, at the end of the day they betrayed each other. He can’t justify his own actions, so he’s not gonna cast the first stone. 

But  _ Phil. _That’s the one that hit harder for some reason. Maybe because he looked up to him. Maybe it was because it was Wilbur’s father and this was  _his_ nation,  _ his _ symphony. Or maybe it was the blatant hypocrisy in the justification. 

“Teach them a lesson.” He says. Like Tommy hasn’t been taught enough. “Send a message” No government, power corrupts. He shakes hands with the biggest fucking tyrant in this place. “It’s the government’s fault,” he cries, when it was his fucking sword in Wilbur’s stomach. 

Everybody’s always looking for a scapegoat. 

If they wanted to dismantle the system they could’ve tried a million other ways. But they didn’t. They got angry and personal and vengeful. They destroyed a town where people lived. They took everything and laughed at the devastation they wrought like it was all a fucking joke. The declaration (Wilbur’s voice echoes in his mind,  _ “the brutality and tyranny” _ ) the van, the history, everything everyone owned. His stomach sinks to even think. 

That’s not anarchy, that’s not freedom. That’s  _ villainy, _that’s an abuse of power, and if they can’t see that they’re fucking blind.

Tommy’s no saint ( _“Selfish” _ ). He contradicts himself like the rest of them, he’s made his fair share of mistakes. But at least he’ll call them that. At least he’s sorry and he’s trying to be better. 

“Since I was forced to kill my son, idiot.” He says. But no, that’s not right, is it? Wilbur’s not an excuse. He was a  _ person_. Phil wasn’t even there, how the hell would he know if it was the government's fault? Wil fought tooth and nail for this place, for his people. And Phil has the fucking audacity to claim he’s destroyed everything Wilbur and Tommy ever cared about  _ for _ Wilbur? That’s bullshit. It’s an insult to his memory. The rubble that remains of it anyway. 

Tommy has nothing. And it sucks just as much as he remembers. He’s alone and the only people he thought _maybe_ cared took the one fucking thing he had left. And it’s his fault a bit. He turned his back on them first, but this was the plan all along. This was another fucking inevitability. Fate in action. Theseus fucked up again.

“Can’t you see history repeating itself?” He asked. Can’t they see they’re the ones making it?

They can take his shit and they can burn his disks and they can break his bones and they can steal his dignity. But his home? The place he shared with Wilbur? His memories? They had no fucking right to touch that. They had no fucking right to take everything in his name, on his behalf, and say it was penance. Penance for what? Being a pawn on a chessboard isn’t a choice. You shouldn’t be punished for the crimes of the person playing the game. 

But it’s not about should and shouldn’t. Not anymore. What’s done is done. And it’s _all_ done. 

Tommy kneels in the rubble of the camarvan, surrounded by ghosts and tragedy. Fleeting memories and old walls. Blood and lightning and rain. 

There’s a soft voice. “Tommy?” It barely carries over the pounding rain, the coughing sobs. It’s Tubbo. He’s gentle and quiet in the way he’s been around Tommy all day. Like he’s afraid he’ll shatter the shaky bonds they’re rebuilding. 

“Tommy?” He says again. He walks over to him, knelt in ruins. Puts a hand on his shoulder, ducks to meet his eyes. 

“It’s gone, Tubbo.” His voice is hollow.

“I know, Tommy.”

Tubbo sighs, trying to smile a bit. But it dies on his lips, and the tears blur his eyes too. Rain slicks off their backs. 

Another firework bursts, color in the air against the grayscale gloom of destruction, light on their faces. Tubbo flinches. Just two boys in the rubble of the nation they built. Broken hearts in broken people. 

“Our L’manburg.” Tubbo mumbles, looking out at the crater. He pulls a chunk out of the remains of the van. A blazerod. He laughs a little

“Our L’manburg.” 

“We’ve lost so much,” Tubbo says, and it’s like an echo. Like déjà vu. 

“I have a feeling we’re gonna lose more.” Tommy breathes. He bites his lips to stop the sobs that still threaten to spill over, rattling in his ribs. 

Tubbo looks at L’manburg then back to Tommy. His mouth twists into this awful little frown, says more than words ever could. Then he pulls Tommy into a hug. Tommy melts into it, tucks his face into Tubbo’s shoulder, dissolving further into tears. 

“It’s going to be okay, Toms.” He mutters, voice warm and watery and familiar in his ears. 

But he’s lying. 

**Author's Note:**

> sir that’s my emotional support traumatized raccoon boy.  
> seriously though, im running out of people to comfort this child. alivebur wake up and go apeshit on your brother’s behalf please :)  
> anyway
> 
> thank you for reading!!  
> YOU SHOULD COMMENT  
> please it will ease my crippling insecurity also i will love you forever 
> 
> Byee


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